               
The angry kettle
To say he was annoying would be unfair, because he was always flashing smiles like winter sunlight in the city. In fact, he was the sort of man whose honest, decent appearance would make a woman relax right away. Still, I have to admit he was weird, because I will be damned if I know why he spent three hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents on a kettle, a plain old kettle for boiling water.
'It's an excellent kettle,' Michael said the first time I went to look at the room. He was fingering the short, fat spout and playing with the little whatsit on the end of it. That little whatsit, it was very unusual, a bit like the cups we use for drinking shots in China. 'It's beautiful, isn't it?' Michael asked, putting the little whatsit back on the end of the spout.
'Yes, it's very shiny,' I said. 'It's almost as shiny as a mirror.' I continued after a pause, because that was the only positive thing I could think of to say.
'Of course! You won't find a mirror shinier!' he insisted.
In that case, why do people look in mirrors? They could just as well look in the kettle. That was what went through my mind but only through my mind, because I did not want to have a disagreement with him before I even moved in. Besides, I liked the room; it had high ceilings and orangy-beige walls that made it sunny day and night. The landlady was a sweet old soul with a soft voice and silent steps, as if she was afraid of scaring someone. She did not live on the premises, and so, all in all, although the rent was a bit steep, it was very attractive.
'You can use it, but you must keep it clean,' Michael generously offered me his kettle, which he was holding in his hand, the day I moved in.
'Thank you. But, to be hones, I still don't see why it's worth three hundred and ninety-nine dollars.' I nodded sincerely and expressed my doubts sincerely at the same time.
'You can't express the value of something as good as this in monetary terms.'
'Sorry,' I said shamefaced, as I tried to fathom the meaning of Michael's deep thoughts. When I looked back up at the kettle, it was with an almost worshipful attitude but then I couldn't stop myself from laughing, because my face reflected in its side looked like a rock melon.
I got on well with Michael. He was a lawyer. He had his own practice, worked hard, and lived simply. We met most mornings or evenings in the kitchen. Every time he picked up his kettle, Michael made a gurgling noise in his throat. At first I thought he had a headache, but then I realised he was expressing appreciation, as though it was full of honey, not water.
Michael was very eager to correct my English mistakes. I was delighted at first, but it soon became unbearable, because he always interrupted me the minute I opened my mouth. If it was not pronunciation, it was grammar, and if it was not either of those, then it was to praise my command of the language. Five interruptions for every ten words would make anyone forget what they were saying. After a while, I tried speaking like a machine-gun to stop him from interrupting me, but it was no good; no matter how fast I was, he was faster, and if he couldn't get a word in or I wouldn't listen to him, he started drumming on the table with his fingers. Damn it, he drummed away until I couldn't get another word out, and then he would correct my mistakes for me from the beginning.
Hi behaviour only made my English worse and worse when I was with him. I was nervous before I even opened my mouth, not because I was afraid of making mistakes, but because I was afraid he would interrupt. The English he spoke to me was more difficult than a philosophical treatise, and I even began to wonder whether he was using real words you could find in a dictionary at all. I know he meant well and was doing his best to help me, but every time I found myself watching his little smile and wondering when I would finally be able to escape. However, he must have read my mind, because he started pouring out his sentences without blinking or pausing for breath, like a tap with a broken washer.
I used Michael's kettle a few times, but quickly decided never to use it again, even if it meant dying of thirst. If I used it to boil up some water, I had to stand there and keep an eye on it, then turn the gas off at the first puff of steam. Otherwise, the little whatsit would perk right up and start to scream through the apartment like a missile searching out its target. The sound was high and piercing, like a conquering hero determined to flatten everything in his path. Whenever I heard it, I panicked, torn between going to turn the gas off and sticking my fingers in my ears and fleeing. I stumbled at the kitchen door once, twisting my ankle so it swelled up like a bun and I could not wear high heels for over a week. I even heard it in my dreams, howling like a wolf.
It had another trick, and that was burning me. Because it was all metal, the minute I turned the gas on, it got hotter than the flame itself, and whether I went to pull that screaming little whatsit off or pour the water out, either way I stood a good chance of getting burnt. I'm not exaggerating; I've still got the scars to prove it.
'Let's use my kettle today.' I dreaded that more than anything, because although I cleaned it thoroughly every time I used it, Michael was never satisfied. I began to wonder if the kettle was not telling tales on me.
'Didn't you say I could use it?'
'Yes, but I said you have to keep it clean.'
'I can't see that I've left any marks on it.'
'This is your fingerprint,' he pointed with his long finger.
I did not argue any further, because it was mine. However, I was thinking he should use a rope and pulley system to lower it onto the stove. Michael bought seven or eight different cleaning products all for the one kettle, and every Sunday he rotated through the red and green fluids cleaning it. I could not stand to be in the kitchen a minute longer than absolutely necessary, and although I was scared of Michael, I was more scared of his kettle. At least I got to see Michael's smile every morning, but apart from making me jump out of my skin, that kettle was only good for making my face look like a rock melon.
In the end, the day came when even Michael's smile disappeared.
When I went to the kitchen in the morning, I saw the kettle had been put in the middle of the table, and its master was sitting on the edge. Not only was there no trace of a smile on his face, but he was also drumming all ten fingers on the table top. My instinct was to bolt, but too late, he had called me to a halt already.
'It's dirty,' he said. 'It's been dirtied.' He was pallid and there were dark circles round his eyes. He spoke as though he was making a public statement that his beloved had been violated, although it was only a kettle and not a person.
'I haven't used it,' I said. 'I haven't used it for a long time.' I congratulated myself on not having even laid a finger on it recently.
'But you've dirtied it.'
'I haven't touched it.'
'But I've told you, it has to be kept away from oil, and when you cook, you use oil.'
'It's at least ten feet away from where I cook.'
'But it isn't shiny any more, it's all blurry.'
'Maybe, but I can't stop eating just because of that kettle.'
'You could eat a sandwich.'
'But I'm Chinese.'
'Do Chinese people have to eat fried food?'
'Do Australians have to treat their kettles like sweethearts?'
'If you don't like sandwiches you shouldn't have come to Australia.'
'If this kettle is worth so much to you, you should take it to bed and hold it tight, not leave it in the kitchen.'
'I will.'
'Thank God for that!'
That was the longest exchange I ever had with Michael without him correcting my English mistakes.
Although I still heard its scream sometimes, I never did see that kettle in the kitchen again. Walking by Michael's room one day, I saw it sitting proudly on his pillow, its whole body shiny and glowing. What a coward I was; I barely had the guts to look straight at it, as though it might whizz after me like a missile and drill a hole right through me.
Early in the morning a week later, to the accompaniment of the kettle's happy scream, I moved out.
From Maidenhome, published in 1993 by Hyland House, Melbourne in association with Monash Asia Institute, Melbourne, pp. 193-96.
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